==================================================

Location: Home.
Listening: Comedy Central, still.

See? I could have been a CEO of Enron.

Ash Wednesday and I didn't go to church. Again. I've forgotten or not had the time for the last five years. The last Ash Wednesday I observed was in 1997, when I went to the makeshift service in Bovard Auditorium on the USC campus. I then joined some friends for the Big Bad Voodoo Daddy concert at lunchtime in the center of campus and got in a little West Coast swing, ashes and all. The timing was interesting, to say the least.

At least I'm giving up soda for Lent. It's something, I suppose.

Not much to report. Work proceeds apace, although my coworker is now going on a week and three days out of the office with her ill children (or with the new temp assignment she's been trying to get, either one). Came home today and napped with Peter, who was up all night writing (have you read TD/OS yet? This is my boy's genius, people, get to it.). We slept until 8:30, when we woke, realized we had missed half of a new Enterprise, and watched a special on the Arts and Crafts architectural movement (The Gamble House is one of my less secret passions). Peter ordered pizza, I ran out to 7-11 for a bottle of Cabernet, and returned with a fleur for my love, who sniffed it while lounging coyly in pajama pants on the sofa. While we don't celebrate Valentine's Day (more on that tomorrow--it has something to do with believing that one should make an effort to ensure that they show affection and consideration for their partner every day, rather than on one day especially), he was long overdue for a fleur. We're also going to San Francisco for the long weekend. I'm looking forward to showing Peter the finer details of my favorite city. We're staying at The Green Tortoise Guest House, my second home in SF, and touring my spots in North Beach: City Lights, the Church of St. Francis of Assisi (where the friars sweep the stoops on Saturday afternoon), Washington Square, the Church of Saints Peter and Paul, Golden Boy Pizza (where the punk staff will give you whatever's hot out of the oven and you'll take it and like it), Zona Rosa on the Haight (where I had my first Mission-style burrito), Russian Hill (where, one day, I'll have my rowhouse and printing press), Chinatown...I'm even treating myself to a little Christmas/birthday present (I spent all of my Christmas money from my parents on presents for other people) and buying a digital camera, so hopefully, we'll be posting pictures when we return. We'll be hanging out with Treb, an old friend of Peter's and an acquaintance of mine, who lives in Oakland and who we stayed with when we went up last year at this time. The idea of roaming SF again with just some sturdy shoes and a backpack makes me smile. Digging around for out-of-print Diane DiPrima at City Lights, stretching out in the grass in front of the Church on the Square, grabbing some vegan Chinese (along with miso soup. chicken mish-mosh from Canter's, and ribs from the Rendezvous, the best food on the planet), making tea in a little kitchen at the Green Tortoise and going down to the common room for coffee and oranges and a newspaper first-thing in the morning, the chilly fog from Broadway to the Bay before noon, warming fingers with paper bags of fresh cha su bao from a Chinese bakery (which kept me alive when I was incredibly poor in LA) while looking for mahjongg tiles, talking to the lions at the gates to Chinatown, browsing the drag shop on the Haight, roaming the Tenderloin at evening when the night-folk are taking their stations, wearing my Pride rings and knowing that most people will smile and wave rather than try to hit on us, poking around Mr. S on Folsom....the most fundamental sources of joy in my life reside in that city. All in all, it promises to be a wonderful weekend.

Oh, did I mention that Peter cleaned the den last night while I was hiding in bed after a particularly painful conversation with my mother? It's lovely and so much more relaxing to be home now. Yay. I likely don't deserve him, but don't mention that too often, ok?

I'll end with a bit of wisdom: If anyone ever asks you to appear on The Jerry Springer Show, the correct answer is: "Don't let the door hit your ass on the way out.". Trust me.